Save the Last Dance
by Lawson227
Summary: It's time for the Annual Policeman's Ball. When Shawn declines to escort Juliet, her partner and best friend comes to the rescue. Why yes, this is a return back to the world of Lassiet. Rated T... for now.
1. Chapter 1

**Save the Last Dance**

It's time for the Annual Policeman's Ball. When Shawn declines to escort Juliet, her partner and best friend comes to the rescue. Why yes, this is a return back to the world of Lassiet.

**Disclaimer: **(Which I can't BELIEVE I forgot!) Own nothing of **psych, **kinda wish I did, or at least had the opportunity to pull a Sam Beckett and put right a few things that IMO have gone wrong..._ish_.

**AN: **This fic inspired, in part, because Loafer was nagging me to write another Lassiet, but mostly because of the World's Most Adorable Picture of Tim Omundson and Maggie Lawson from the cast's appearance at ComicCon.

* * *

"Shawn?"

"Yes, my dearest Jules?"

Juliet tried not to sigh or roll her eyes or exhibit any other outward sign of annoyance that might derail Shawn onto a different topic, like if she was in a bad mood or grumpy, perhaps they could hit the new Wonders of Sci-Fi putt-putt course out by the beach, since fresh air and alien monster-shaped holes were sure to put a smile on… well, _his_ face, at least and if _he_ was happy, then surely Juliet would be, too.

Shawn Logic—a category unto itself where reason and fact served absolutely no purpose.

Not for the first time did Juliet find herself wondering why she was pushing so hard for this. Except that it was important to _her_. It had been a while since Shawn had done anything solely for her with no ulterior motive or misguided intent.

Correction: Solely because she had _stated_ clearly, and with no room for interpretation, that it was important to her.

Because Shawn would argue that reuniting her with her father had been solely for her.

That the bouncy house birthday party had been for her.

Okay, the bouncy house _had_ been fun, if not her first idea for a thirtieth birthday celebration.

That the weekend away had been something that was important to her.

Even if the only times they'd done anything she wanted was in the interests of Shawn's attempts to recover his DS.

Funny, though, how after all that fuss and drama and his obvious relief when Gus said he'd retrieved it, she'd never once seen him playing with it.

"Jules?" Shawn peered down at her from his perch on the corner of her desk, obviously concerned and Juliet felt a tiny glimmer of hope. Maybe this time—

"Can we hurry this up?" He held his phone up, a countdown timer in the shape of a stick of TNT prominently displayed on the screen. "Gus is back at the office waiting on the pizza delivery. We've got it timed so it'll show up just before the National Lampoon Movie Marathon starts on TV. Every film with National Lampoon in the title, starting with _Animal House_."

He shifted on the desk, knocking over her pen cup as he blew out an impatient breath. "You know how crazy he gets if I'm late and he has to pause the Tivo, although hello? Exactly why I got the Tivo."

"Oh his credit card," Juliet snapped, realizing the source of Shawn's concern.

_Why do you want this so bad again?_

_He didn't buy a car. He barely claims a drawer. And that's okay. Really. I just want… _something.

_Really? From a car to a drawer to this. This is how low your expectations have sunk. Pathetic._

_Stop it. It's not like that._

_Who, exactly, are you trying to convince, O'Hara?_

Great. And now the critical voice was starting to take on the cadence of Carlton's typical speech patterns.

"Seriously, Jules—I've got to motor in a minute."

"The Policeman's Ball," she blurted.

Shawn looked blank. "What?"

"Annual ball," she clarified. "Raises money for charity. You didn't go with me last year because we were still keeping our relationship under wraps."

Eyebrows drawn together, but no sign of recognition.

"I've been asking you about it every week for the last three months, ever since tickets went on sale."

Silence. Still blank.

"Every time I've asked, you've answered you need to think about it."

_Now_ there was a spark of recognition. As if it was in a language he understood.

"Yeah, well…" He shrugged and grinned. "I do need to think about it."

"It's next _week_." She gripped the arms of her desk chair.

"Oh." His face brightened further. "So I have time."

"_Shawn!_"

Silence.

As in, Juliet suddenly became aware the entire bullpen had gone silent with attention focused in the general direction of her desk. At least, most of the attention. For some reason, she found her gaze drawn toward Carlton's desk, her stomach clenching as she noted his downturned head, pen moving steadily across the page. As if her outburst was so commonplace as to not even merit a startled glance from him.

With a sinking sensation she realized it probably was.

Standing, Juliet grasped Shawn's arm, unceremoniously hauling him from her desk and hustling him down the hall and through the doors. In a sun-dappled alcove she turned and poked a finger into his chest, trying not to cringe at the slightly doughy give.

"It's a very simple question, Shawn, with a very simple answer. Will you attend the Policeman's Ball with me? Yes or no, both single syllable answers, relatively easy to enunciate. Either way, I _have_ to know."

Comprehension had fully dawned across his boyish features—the understanding that this really could be important. Possibly life-threatening. And yet the internal war still clearly waged, reinforced by his "Do you really have to know _now_, though?"

Suddenly weary, Juliet sighed, "Yes, Shawn. I do have to know now." She blinked, although the automatic hot stinging she expected never materialized.

Habit, she realized with some wonder.

And now, it… wasn't.

Curioser and curioser.

"Today's the last day to order tickets," she explained. Again. "They have to have a headcount for the caterer."

"I'd have to wear a tux, right?"

Almost out of habit, that tiny glimmer of hope reappeared, little wings fluttering against her ribcage with hesitant joy. "Not necessarily," she replied, hearing the hope reflected in her voice and trying to tamp it down. "They're going with a cruise theme for the ball—the invitations said 'resort dress wear.'"

At this he brightened considerably.

"Oh, well, that's cool. I could wear board shorts and a wicked Hawaiian shirt. I've got one with pineapples that glow—"

"No, Shawn." She felt the glimmer plummeting down into the pit of her stomach, a little plume of smoke spiraling from its ass. "You'd have to wear a suit, at least. And I don't know why you'd object to a tux." Her voice sharpened. "You wore one when you snuck into the Ambassador's mansion."

"But that was for a case, Jules."

Well, then.

And just like that, without even really trying, she had the answer to a question that had plagued her for months.

Yes, he'd answered the question about the picture, but despite her lingering shock over Shawn's confession of love, Juliet hadn't missed Gus' reaction to Carlton's very direct question with respect to his partner's abilities. How he'd initially sighed in a way that could only be called resigned, snatched his SBPD Visitor Pass from his pocket and replaced it with his company I.D.

How the moment the polygraph had shown no deception indicated, he'd sighed in a way that could only be called obvious relief, followed by a smirk and the replacement of the company I.D. with his Visitor Pass.

Subtle, Gus wasn't.

And ever since, a little part of her had wondered.

Shawn's cheek hollowed, sign that he was biting it from the inside—his tell that he was likely to say something she really didn't want to hear.

Except this time.

This time, she didn't really care.

_Wonder why that is?_

_You don't need to gloat._

_Yeah, O'Hara, I really, really do._

"You know what, Shawn, never mind."

"You mean I can wear a Hawaiian shirt?"

"No, I mean, you can forget the whole thing."

His mouth pursed, his brows drawing together into a near-unbroken line as he attempted to process her words. Clearly, this was making No Sense in Shawn World and the more he tried to make heads or tails of it, the more his face scrunched up until Juliet found herself swallowing down an unexpected laugh.

Her nephews used to make that same face as babies—usually when they were concentrating really hard on taking a gigantic poop in their diapers, their entire worlds shrunk down to this one task and Figuring It Out.

"Shawn." She put her hand on his arm and gently shook it, trying to break the trance. At her touch, his eyes cleared and he seemed as with it as he was going to get without pizza and Gus' company.

"I'm saying you're off the hook."

For a moment his expression clouded again, as if trying to recall what they'd been talking about in the first place, followed closely by enormous relief—again, reminding her of her nephews and how they'd look immediately in the wake of a successfully executed poop. Honestly, Juliet couldn't help but feel as if maybe he'd been playing her the entire time—just waiting her out, knowing she'd be waiting to clean up his poop.

Yeah… not this time.

"It's probably for the best, Jules," he said, not even bothering to hide his sigh of relief.

"Yeah, it probably is, Shawn," she said evenly. "I'll bring your stuff by after work."

He smiled absently as he leaned in to kiss her cheek, his mind clearly already on his share of Meat Lovers with pineapple, and toga parties. An instant before his lips made contact, however, he reared back.

"What?"

She smiled. "I mean, you're off the hook. Completely." She patted his arm again, feeling remarkably light, especially considering she'd emerged from the fog only to discover the big-ass iceberg known as Shawn Spencer's deceit. Juliet knew, when she had time to process, she'd probably understand just how much had been hidden beneath the surface charm and keen intellect, but for now, she'd be satisfied with escaping a Titanic-like fate, bailing before it could take her down any further.

"You're off the boyfriend hook."

"But…" He blinked, staring at her as if he no longer recognized her. Strangely, however, she felt more herself than she had in close to a year.

"I don't _want_ to be off the boyfriend hook."

"Let's be honest, Shawn." It was easy to keep a kind note to her voice. Later, she'd be mad, but right now, mostly, she was relieved. Hence, kindness came easy.

"You never were really _on_ it. Outside of the absence of semi-regular sex, I suspect you won't even notice a difference. Trust me."

Poop Face began creasing his features once more but she merely patted his arm one final time and turned to walk back into the station. It was time for Shawn Spencer to learn how to use the potty and wipe his own ass.

Because she was _done_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

_Do it._

_What if I'm wrong?_

_You're not wrong, dumbass. Just scared._

_Am not._

_Are too. Scared like a little girl._

_Bite me._

_Yeah, you talk big, Lassiter, but all I'm seeing is a big, scaredy-cat dumbass._

_Shut it._

With that mental snarl, Carlton yanked his top drawer open and grabbed the envelope he'd had stashed there since Monday.

Okay, since Friday afternoon.

When O'Hara and that asshat, Spencer had been having yet another disagreement—one animated enough to bring the bullpen to a standstill that had built to a curious buzz after she'd hustled them outside. Buzz that had died down by the time she returned a few minutes later, looking surprisingly light and relieved, yet on Monday morning, she'd come in puffy-eyed and remained quiet throughout the day. It'd been out-of-character enough that while he didn't dig for intel—even though he desperately wanted to know if he needed to discharge his weapon repeatedly in the direction of a certain gel-headed asshat—he'd wordlessly bought all their coffee and taken her to lunch away from the station and the prying eyes he knew had noted Detective O'Hara's unusually somber demeanor.

Tuesday had brought with it the return of a more recognizable O'Hara—one who smiled and returned the favor of buying coffee and suggesting they hit his favorite Irish pub for lunch—but still something wasn't quite right. There had been contemplative stares out the car window as he drove them to the scene of a robbery—ironically at a pharmaceuticals company, although not Guster's—and a much sharper than usual questioning of an employee. Sharp enough that Carlton found himself in the extremely unusual position of actually having to be _nice_ to the woman. As it happened, she found his blue eyes so sympathetic and kind after the acid-tongued O'Hara, she confessed that it was her boyfriend, also an employee at the company, in the lab division, who had masterminded—pretty damned ineptly as it turned out—the crime.

Now it was Wednesday morning and O'Hara's eyes were clear and her demeanor sunny enough that nary a hint of gossip was circulating, but already Carlton had caught two wistful glances toward the bulletin board and one long sigh that even he could interpret as containing mixed emotions. More of that wistfulness and unless he was completely cracked, an equal dose of relief.

It was the wistfulness he could do something about.

_And yet… you're still sitting here. Like a big, scaredy-cat dumbass._

Ignoring the inner voice, Carlton crossed the distance between his desk and O'Hara's and unceremoniously slapped the envelope beside her keyboard.

With a startled jump, she glanced up, blue eyes wide and clear, he noted with some satisfaction and if maybe they weren't as bright as usual, at least they weren't puffy and red-rimmed. If they had been…

"What's this?"

"For Saturday."

She tilted her head slightly, brows drawn together in that way that communicated she didn't quite understand, but trusted he'd explain. A look she seemed to save only for him, he'd realized a long time ago.

"The Policeman's Ball." When her expression didn't change, he sighed. He'd really hoped he could leave it just at that.

He should've known better.

"It's what you and Spencer were arguing about the other day, wasn't it?"

The initial confusion cleared, a new confusion taking its place and darkening her eyes to a deep slate. "How'd you know?"

After an eye-roll he figured he was entitled to, he sighed and pointed to her desk calendar where the previous Friday was circled in red, while with the upcoming Saturday was circled in a festive purple accompanied by a little doodled smiley face. Raising an eyebrow, he then tugged at the scraps of paper peeking out from beneath her desk blotter, revealing pages torn from fashion magazines with pictures of light, frothy dresses modeled by women who seriously needed to eat an entire department picnic's worth of sandwiches.

"Rumor has it there's a reason I made youngest Head Detective, once upon a time," he replied drily, feeling a smile tugging at his mouth as O'Hara blushed.

He glanced down at the pages he held, idly noting that not a one of those stick insects could hold a candle to O'Hara in any of those dresses. Especially that strapless blue and white one—looked like it was about to fall off the model's bony chest. Automatically, he raised his gaze to O'Hara. With her lithe body and athletic curves, she'd put the stick insect to shame—especially with her honey blonde hair and her smooth, creamy complexion, lacking scary makeup and eyelashes that looked like spiders about to leap off the page and attack innocent bystanders.

"But Carlton—"

He snapped out of the direction his thoughts were headed, hoping to hide evidence of them by returning the pages to O'Hara's blotter and taking a step back.

"What?"

"How did you get this? They stopped selling them on Friday—no exceptions." The crease was back between her brows, and again, he could clearly read her expression—she was trusting he would explain, but dammit, he really didn't _want_ to.

"I had an extra."

_Please, O'Hara, leave it there. Just—_

"An extra? But why—_oh._" All of a sudden, her expression shifted from not understanding to understanding all too well. But he didn't want sympathy. Really didn't need it, truthfully.

"It's okay, O'Hara. It really is." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Only downside, I suppose, is that you'd be stuck at a table with me, but maybe you'll be able to get them to switch you out or you can find someone willing to switch on Saturday night, but please God, all I request is that you don't ask Woody—"

"Carlton."

Ignoring her, he barreled on. "Ever since he and his wife separated he's been exploring alternative lifestyles and you really don't want to know what he suggested to me the other day in the men's room for God's sake—damn near drew my weapon right there and—"

"_Carlton_—"

He stopped cold at her tone, aware that the rest of the bullpen had also gone quiet and was staring. At them.

O'Hara sighed and rolled her eyes. "This is honestly really getting old." Grabbing his arm, she dragged Carlton's bemused, yet unresisting form down the hall and outside. Even clear of the building, however, she maintained her grasp, as if concerned he might try to make a break for it.

_Not likely._

The further they went, though, the more the feel of it changed—the impatient dragging gentling to something more… companionable, especially as her stride slowed, turning to a leisurely walk. Silently, she led them away from the station and down to his favorite bench overlooking the water, the contemplative expression back on her face and leaving Carlton with the uneasy feeling he'd just made an enormous blunder.

Once there, her hand fell away from his arm, leaving him feeling oddly unbalanced, like things weren't right, which was freaking weird, since how often did they really touch throughout the course of any given day that wasn't incidental? No reason he should feel as if something was missing, right?

_Oh, come on, really? Tell me you can't recall every damned one of those non-incidental touches._

Carlton stared straight ahead over the water, trying to focus on the sound of the waves rushing into shore.

_That's what I thought._

"Why are we here, O'Hara?"

"Because we were both due to go on break anyhow and I'm damned tired of my business being department gossip fodder."

_What did you expect from dating Spencer? The man lives to be the center of attention. The fact that he captured your heart? Cherry on the pineapple sundae of attention far as that nitwit's concerned. _

"Thank you for not stating the obvious even though it's clear you're thinking it."

Heat suffused his face at her dry tone. "Am not."

She laughed, the sound light and soothing to his nerves. "Oh, Carlton." Her hand returned to his arm, his forearm, bare since his sleeves were in their habitually rolled up state and her skin was so damned warm on his—her touch as light as her laugh had been. Soothing? Not so much.

"You are very good at hiding your feelings when you want, but there are times you think so…" She laughed again. "_Loud_."

As he kept his gaze resolutely focused on the waves, hoping, dammit, that they'd start working their soothing magic on him, O'Hara sighed.

And kept her hand on his arm. Like she needed support or something. From him.

How novel.

"I broke up with Shawn."

"I gathered."

"It wasn't just the ball."

"Figured as much." Of course it wasn't just the ball. The man was a narcissistic, selfish, immature, attention whore—

"He's not a psychic, Carlton."

Said so softly and in such a sad, resigned tone, he couldn't bring himself to respond with the hearty "_D'uh_" or any of the other scathing comebacks he'd kept in reserve for seven years. Mostly the _d'uh_, though.

"Thank you for not stating the obvious even though it's clear you're thinking it." She sighed again.

"Are you okay?" It was one thing for him to have suspected, even _known_, but for O'Hara—she'd put so much faith in the man's supposed abilities.

She stared out over the water, her expression set in sad lines that gave her face a new maturity. Much as he hated the circumstances that had brought that expression to her face, he still couldn't help but think it gave her a new loveliness—as if she'd needed any more. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "I think I could have lived with the knowledge that he's not a psychic."

Carlton raised an eyebrow, but remained silent, noting how the feel of her hand on his arm changed slightly with her words, became more tense, as if she was hanging on. Instinctively, he edged closer, stopping only when their shoulders brushed.

"It would have been hard, but if he'd come to me with a sincere desire to be honest—in the interests of our relationship _and_ if he'd promised he'd come clean to the Chief and you and… well, the department—I… I think I might have been able to get past it. But I was never that important to him."

"Asshat," Carlton muttered, unable to resist. Idly, he wondered how many rounds of ammo he had in his car. Enough to satisfactorily Swiss cheese the little S.O.B., he figured.

"Thank you." Once again, her hold on his arm changed, softened into something that felt, if he allowed himself to imagine it, almost like a caress.

_Sea air getting to you there, Lassiter?_

_Shut it._

"What do you want to do?" he asked, hoping that shooting Spencer would be one of the options listed.

"Well, I already did what I needed to do for me," she replied, and was she actually leaning closer? Wisps of honey-blonde, vanilla-and-ocean-breeze-scented hair brushing his jaw, her entire forearm pressed against his, closer? Or was it just his imagination?

Had to be his imagination.

"I returned the few things he'd ever left at my place back to him and changed the locks and security code, even though I never gave him a key or the code."

Good girl. She may have been in love, but she wasn't completely stupid.

"I'm thinking about moving, maybe."

"_Away_?"

Oh _hell_, no. Carlton really would Swiss cheese the miserable little twerp into tiny bits that even rats would have difficulty finding before he'd let her move away because of _Spencer_. He tried to sit straighter, but was unable, due to the fact that yes, she was leaning rather comfortably against him. And didn't seem inclined to move or let _him_ move, given how she more fully settled her head against his shoulder with a sigh.

Last time she'd done that, it had been as a gesture of comfort in the wake of his drug-induced condo ordeal. At the ER where she'd dragged him despite his insistence that he was _fine_, dammit, she'd perched beside him on the examination table, tucked the blanket more securely around his shoulders and rested her head on his shoulder for a brief, wondrous moment, whispering she was _so_ glad he was okay.

Now, though, she was drawing comfort from him.

Odd. But he wasn't prone to argue. Not about this.

"No, Carlton," she reassured him. "Not away. I could never leave Santa Barbara. It's home. My friends are here. My job. My best friend." Her body moved against his with an enormous sigh that left him feeling entirely too warm, even with the cool breezes coming in off the water. "Although I haven't been very good at that, lately, have I?"

She meant him, he realized. He'd thought that of her, of course, but would never have presumed…

She meant him.

Fresh warmth, this time from somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

"I think you could argue both of us have been a little lacking in that department, O'Hara. Let's say we call it even."

"That's surprisingly magnanimous of you, Carlton."

"Don't tell anyone."

"Best friends don't spill each other's secrets."

"Damned straight."

"Speaking of secrets—" Her fingers tightened on his arm. "I've been thinking a lot about this and I… don't think we should tell the Chief about Shawn."

He'd had a feeling. He even understood why.

"The sheer number of convictions that would be overturned," he said with a weary sigh, shoving his free hand through his hair.

"Exactly. If she's made aware of Shawn's deception, she'd _have_ to come clean. And as the person ultimately responsible for hiring Psych, she'd likely lose her job." Her voice was very soft. "Carlton, I know you've always objected to their involvement, but we can't let the Chief take the fall for this. She doesn't deserve it and we have honestly solved a lot of cases. Cases that might have taken us a little longer to solve on our own, but we would have solved them."

She sounded so damned certain. Had so much faith in them—in _him_. But still—

Dammit.

Dammit to hell. He'd tried to stop this. He really had. Seven years ago. But he'd made a huge tactical error in trying to assert his own authority and Karen Vick, new on the job and with a lot to prove, had dug in her heels, making it clear it was _her_ show. Truth was, he'd respected her for that, although he would've just as soon walked on hot coals as admit it.

Not to mention, nothing short of a Category 5 hurricane was liable to stop Shawn Spencer and even that wasn't a sure thing. So he'd just sat back and hoped the man-child would grow bored, like he had with every other damned thing in his history, and disappear, leaving the department in peace.

Unfortunately, he'd clung… like a fungus. Or a flesh-eating bacteria.

"Truth is," he said slowly, "if she's fired and a new chief comes in, they'd be likely to clean house of the players most involved with Psych, starting with us."

Dammit to ever-loving-crap-on-a-cracker _hell_. That he'd have to hold Shawn Lying Asshat Whackaloon Spencer responsible for his job? His livelihood? His _life_?

_Whoa there, Bucko—what were we talking about with respect to that last thing the other day._

_Yeah, yeah… I _know_. Now, for the last time—Shut. It._

"And it would make being hired as cops anywhere else damned difficult," O'Hara added, with devastating accuracy.

They fell silent for a while then, each lost in their own thoughts. Carlton enjoying, despite the turn the conversation had taken, the feel of O'Hara with him. Not just her physical presence, closer to him than she'd been since the clock tower, but the essence of her. Completely with _him_ in a way she hadn't been for more than a year.

"Your turn."

He took a deep breath, wishing he could lean on her the same way she'd been leaning on him, but he couldn't… it was different for him. She was his friend. She was leaning on him as a _friend_. A friend he'd only just gotten back and he'd be damned if he did anything to risk that.

"It didn't work." His automatic shrug caused her to shift slightly, turn into him more, it felt like. "Day to day life with me is a bitch, O'Hara. You, of all people, know that. Imagine what I'm like at home."

"Probably easier, I suspect," she said agreeably. "You'd be on your own turf."

"Marlowe would disagree."

"Marlowe doesn't know you like I do." Her reply was sharp and immediate in a way that left him doing a mental double take.

"Well, be that as it may," he replied, still mentally shaking his head over the ferocity lacing his partner's voice, "it was a bit much for her. She decided she needed some space. And I now have an extra ticket to the Policeman's Ball that's yours if you want it. And the question of even sitting at the same table as me is moot anyway, since I probably won't go."

"The hell you won't." The agreeable tone was back in her voice, nearly making him miss the intent of the words themselves.

"Excuse me?"

Sitting up, she turned to face him, blue eyes reflecting the sea and the sky and endless possibilities that he had no business imagining, no matter what his suddenly racing heartbeat was trying to suggest.

Or that damned annoying internal voice that was muttering something about _Say yes, dumbass—yes, yes, yes!_

"Carlton Lassiter, you're not leaving me to go unescorted to the Policeman's Ball."

"You want to go…" He felt his eyebrows hovering somewhere near the vicinity of his hairline as he pointed to his chest. "With _me_?"

"Who else?"

"Anyone?" His brows lowered and drew together. "Except maybe Woody."

And Spencer. But that went without saying.

"Honestly?" Her hand returned to his arm—wrist, really, drifting down to grasp his hand, her fingers firm and oh, so damned warm around his. "There's no one else I'd rather go with than my best friend."

She gazed at him, unblinking, her gaze hesitant as was her smile.

Like she had any reason to doubt.

"I'll pick you up at seven-thirty."

Later that night, he'd reflect that her smile, as he'd answered her, was wide and lovely and the happiest he'd seen from her in a while.

Being him, he couldn't help but wonder why.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

It all came down to the pen cup.

That stupid pen cup that Shawn had thoughtlessly knocked over during their non-discussion—because seriously, it couldn't really be termed a discussion if only one party was actively attempting to discuss, right?

But the pen cup. Nothing special about it, really, except Shawn had knocked it over and hadn't done a damned thing about it. She was fairly certain he hadn't even noticed and if he had, would have blamed her or the pen cup or both for so inconveniently being in his way. And she'd been growing so damned ticked off at what seemed like his deliberate obtuseness, she hadn't done anything about it either. Yet when she'd returned from her impromptu but long overdue dumping of Shawn, the overturned pen cup had been righted and in its proper place on her desk, the scattered pens and pencils picked up from her desk and the floor and returned to the cup, with her favorite pen carefully placed across the legal pad she kept handy for notes.

Juliet had automatically glanced in the direction of Carlton's desk— noted him still seated, head down, still writing steadily. To the casual observer, it would appear he hadn't moved an inch, but Juliet was _not_ the casual observer. And neither was Carlton. She'd lay money he was the only person who not only knew which pen was her favorite, but that she preferred to keep it close by on the legal pad, rather than bunched with the others in the cup. Who knew where on her desk she preferred to keep the cup. Who knew so many little things about her, she couldn't even begin to list them all.

Which was what had led to an intense weekend of thinking. She'd expected that, of course. Had expected once the adrenaline of the argument wore off, that she'd mourn the loss of a relationship long desired—the loss of faith and belief in someone she thought she'd loved. That she'd even imagined she might make a life with.

Yeah.

Not so much.

She'd been angry of course, at being duped. No one enjoyed feeling that monumentally stupid, especially when one's entire livelihood was based on observational skills and using reason and intelligence. Definitely made her take a detour into doubting her abilities as a detective, for sure, but the majority of her sadness and anger had been far more internal. And when the mourning over Shawn had abated, sometime very early Saturday morning, she'd found herself visualizing that stupid pen cup and a black-and-silver downturned head, and had dissolved into tears that had refused to quit the rest of the weekend.

It was as if the pen cup was in actuality a giant magnifying glass—maybe with a big, glowy light on it—illuminating so damned many details encompassing the past seven years. All the things she _should_ have seen about Shawn, but hadn't, blinded by the wit and charm and the fast-talking, so damned taken by the idea that he was special.

Oh yeah, he was _special_, all right.

And there, behind all those things she _should_ have seen—always behind, but no less sharply defined—had been the details of the man with whom she'd shared her day to day life.

Rude and irascible. Awkward and unsociable. Fiercely intelligent and skeptical of the easy aswer. Always seeking. Always forcing her to look more intently, question more closely. Guarded and wary and so incredibly, almost hilariously, wrongheaded about so many things, yet when he was right, he was really right. Admittedly quick to broadcast he was right, but then, given the events of the last seven years, who could really blame him? Careful and slow to trust, but once given, a ballast that could be relied on without fail. Quietly devoted to those he cared about and intensely loyal in a way she imagined had only existed in novels that told tales of yore.

No wonder he had such a deep interest in history. In so many ways, Carlton Lassiter was a man out of time.

What Juliet knew he didn't understand was that he was a man who would always be timeless.

Then there was the rest of it and yeah, somewhere late Saturday night, she realized that those details hadn't passed her by either, no matter how hard Shawn had tried to dominate her field of vision.

The tall, lean body.

The dark, silver-flecked hair.

The strong, graceful, long-fingered hands.

The eyes.

Those eyes.

Always those eyes.

Large and perceptive—blue and gray and every shade in between—and as evidenced by that damned pen cup, seeing everything, even if he wasn't actively looking.

By midday Sunday, the tears had been as much about what all she'd actively ignored. All she'd callously dismissed.

All she'd lost.

She'd really screwed up this past year, she acknowledged. She'd lied and hidden things; had been every bit as rude and scornful as she'd so often admonished Carlton of being. Had cracked the very foundation of the hard won trust their partnership—and friendship—was built on and even better, had tried to shift the blame to him, and had very nearly lost him.

Hell, she _had_ lost him for a time. At least a large part of him.

She'd tried to tell herself it was a good thing.

Yeah, right. Who was she trying to kid?

Admittedly, Marlowe, in the abstract, _had_ been a good thing. Carlton was happy. Hopeful. And even though his faint disapproval over her relationship with Shawn still permeated their partnership with the faint stink of rotten pineapple, at least he was too distracted with his own inappropriate relationship to give her crap about hers.

So yes. A Good Thing. That's what she tried to tell herself.

Truth was, too, so long as Marlowe remained behind bulletproof glass, she remained nothing more than an abstract. An ideal.

The moment she was released and ceased being an abstract?

It had bothered Juliet. A lot.

And this weekend, had downright broken her heart, as that pen cup-shaped magnifying glass with its big, glowy light had illuminated the past seven years of her life and what she _should_ have seen.

And what she'd really lost.

Monday had been hard.

But odd. As Carlton went out of his way to… take care of her, was the only way to put it. And the glimmer of hope that had been torpedoed by Shawn's final bombing run had experienced a tentative recovery, tiny wings fluttering weakly.

It was stupid, she told herself. He wasn't stupid. He _knew_ something had happened with Shawn. He was just looking out for her like the good friend and partner she _should _ have been.

Would be.

So Tuesday, she'd put on her Happy Face and returned the favor as best as she could. Fighting the stabbing little shards of jealousy over what Marlowe had and she…

Could have had.

She wouldn't take her frustration out on Carlton—she'd done enough of that for three lifetimes—thank goodness there was a never-ending supply of suspects and perps on whom she could release her frustrations. Her only regret was that there hadn't been any reason to draw her weapon.

Then came Wednesday when every damned thing changed.

Now it was 7:29PM on Saturday. She was wearing a dress that, while not an exact match to the one on which Carlton's gaze had lingered longest—because much as she might wish, she couldn't afford Versace on a cop's salary—was a reasonable facsimile and actually prettier, in her opinion. Strapless and fitted to the waist then floating in airy, ethereal layers to just above her ankles, showing off the strappy sandals with their impossibly high heels he'd no doubt scold her for. Her hair fell in loose romantic waves around her face, her makeup was subtle, but for a bold slash of red lipstick, and her perfume held notes of gardenia, complementing the vanilla shampoo that she'd adopted about the same time she cut her hair short. Juliet knew he'd noticed and liked her old favorite peach shampoo, but that had been for the old Juliet.

The girl.

She'd said her final goodbyes to that girl over the past long weekend.

The new Juliet stood on a threshold, literally and figuratively and looked into the startled blue eyes of her escort.

Her partner.

Her friend.

Looking into those eyes, reading the clear pleasure reflected in them and seeing how the color shifted and deepened—turned a brilliant blue that made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickle with awareness and a pleasant flush suffuse her skin, she couldn't help but hope this man was her…

Was her...

_Go ahead—you can think it. You're allowed now. You're both allowed._

Juliet took a deep breath and felt that glimmer of hope take flight along with a single word:

Future.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

This was quite possibly the best idea he'd ever had or the worst.

_Worst? What are you insane? Do you _**see**_ her?_

_Yeah, jackass, I do. Which is why this could possibly be the worst idea ever. Look at her. Just… look._

_I am. Still not seeing the downside._

"You look wonderful, Carlton."

Okay, yeah—never mind. Best idea. _Ever_. If only to see her lovely face lit by that smile—that very real, _genuine_ smile—as she stood across from him on her threshold looking…looking—

"So do you, O'Hara."

Her smile immediately faded, sending his heart plummeting straight to the bottoms of his highly polished dress shoes. Oh, dear God. Oh, _crap_. Approximately thirty-two seconds into the evening and he'd already screwed up. Somehow. But how? What had he done?

What had he—

"Juliet," he heard himself say, instincts clearly ahead of his brain. "Juliet," he repeated, softer, but with more certainty. "Because tonight, you are most definitely _not_ O'Hara."

Oh, yeah, give props to the instincts judging by the way the smile returned, brilliant white accentuated by shapely red lips. She never wore that color lipstick at work. Thank _God_.

Thank God everything about O'Hara—dammit, _Juliet_—was unlike anything she ever wore at work or else his stint as Head Detective would have ended years ago, done in by complete idiocy and an utter inability to tie his shoes, let alone solve cases.

"And you look beautiful."

A light wash of pink tinted her cheeks as she smiled and turned away to collect a shawl and small bag from the table by the door, gifting him with another few seconds to just look and marvel. Hell, on a _normal_ day his typical reaction to his partner was _Damn, she's pretty_.

Tonight, though…

He'd said beautiful because _d'uh_. The dress she wore was similar to one on those magazine pages she'd had stashed beneath her blotter—but even better. Prettier. Or maybe it was just that it was Juliet gracing it with her presence. Dark blue on top, fading to a pure white down by her ankles, the skirt falling in light, filmy layers that flowed like water around her shapely legs with every step. Dangling blue and crystal earrings sparkled at her ears, a simple necklace with a matching pendant rested in the delicate notch between her collarbones and she looked _beautiful_, dammit.

At least, that's what he said out loud simply because it was the only thing he trusted himself to get away with. If he said what he really wanted—_stunning… glorious… breathtaking… radiant… oh-dear-God-freakin' hot_—he wasn't sure what would happen.

Probably a terrified scream, followed by slamming the door in his face, and possibly calling for backup because clearly, aliens had abducted her partner.

_Or it's possible you would never make it to that stupid ball._

Oh, hell no. He couldn't allow himself to think like that, no matter what she looked like. Or how he imagined she was looking at him. _Had _been looking at him since Wednesday.

"Carlton, could you—"

He stared, then as if in a trance, took the shawl from her outstretched hand, waiting for her to turn her back to him. Carefully, he draped the feather-light, impossibly soft, blue fabric across her shoulders, his heart racing as his fingertips grazed skin even more impossibly soft than the shawl. Her head was bent as she slipped something into her evening bag, causing the newly short ends of her hair to fall forward, leaving the nape of her neck exposed and it was all Carlton could do to not lean forward and press his lips to the vulnerable curve.

_Do it. Do it!_

_Are you high?_

_Are you blind? This, my friend, is what's known as Open Invitation._

_You _are_ high._

_Pfft. And you're an asshat of monumental proportions._

"Thank you."

The sound of her voice startled him—made him realize his hands were still resting on her shoulders, pretty damned comfortably as it turned out, molded to the gentle curves, his fingertips resting on her upper arms, as if they belonged there. He started to snatch them away, but found himself frozen by her hand reaching up to grasp one and hold it in place.

"Your hands are warm." She glanced over one shoulder, dark blue gaze enigmatic.

Good thing she stepped away right then, across the open threshold, waiting for him to join her so she could close and lock her door. Because the thought of not going any damned where was starting to become not only more appealing, but unless he was again, completely cracked, actually plausible.

Because seriously—unless he was utterly, completely, already-wearing-a-strait-jacket-levels-of-cracked, Juliet O'Hara was sending out signals.

The kind of signals women sent out when they were interested in a man.

And since he was currently the only man in the immediate vicinity, he could only assume she was interested in…

_Him_.

Luckily, his instincts kicked in once more, allowing him to make it to his car, open the passenger door for her, and remember how to operate a moving vehicle within the parameters of California vehicular law. Their destination was the Bacara, a sprawling, exclusive resort about fifteen miles outside of town and initially, Carlton had been concerned that the ride would be uncomfortable—the two of them sitting in uneasy silence. He had no idea why he'd imagined that would be the case—especially taking into account just how many hours they'd comfortably spent in each other's company in a car over the past seven years—except he'd naturally assumed that in the hours between Wednesday afternoon and Saturday evening, O'Hara… Juliet, would have regretted her insistence that he accompany her. He'd spent every one of those hours on edge, half-expecting her to oh-so-carefully tell him that she would prefer to go by herself. It was an impulse. She was being nice. Nice in that Juliet O'Hara way. Yet having had time to rethink it, had come to understand this was clearly a bad idea. They were partners. Better to stay partners, right? Rebuild their friendship. Not skirt the edges of this… _thing_ that was going on. That he'd seen in her face on Wednesday. That had planted the seeds of this most improbable idea that the contemplative stares and wistfulness maybe had less to do with Spencer and maybe… possibly… something to do with him.

But that was stupid, right?

Right?

So he waited for her to lower the boom.

Because he knew as nice and gentle as she was, he also knew she had the backbone to warn him off when he wasn't wanted. Like the family Christmas fiasco.

Of course, he _had_ attempted to invite himself to dinner in the wake of making a complete ass of himself in front of her entire family and traumatizing her nephews, so it's not as if he could blame her for making certain he didn't darken her doorstep.

But that had been a long time ago.

They'd been different people.

Strangers, really.

They'd come a long way since then.

Had their ups and downs.

Grown together.

Been there for each other.

Through life and death situations, even.

They'd grown apart again.

And now…

They'd arrived at tonight.

And tonight—

Tonight, the light had been on, illuminating her doorstep and her welcoming smile.


	5. Chapter 5

Yeah, yeah... I'm still alive. Forgive the interminably long interruption due to, Real Life and Other Events. However, I'm back, I _will_ be finishing this story in a timely fashion, and I do hope that this chapter makes up for my long absence. As usual, I own nothing of **_psych_ **much as I might want and I'm just playing in the sandbox. Hopefully, the long interruption also didn't render the story the Most Boring Thing Ever. If it did, apologies.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"Oh, for God's sake."

Juliet bit back a laugh at Carlton's exasperated tone, but allowed a smile to break through. "Relax, Carlton," she soothed as she had so many times before. "It's just to go along with the cruise theme."

"It's ridiculous," he grumbled, sparing a baleful glance at the "gangplank" leading toward the ballroom's entrance. Elegantly dressed employees of the SBPD and their guests lined the sea blue-carpeted surface, waiting their turn in the lattice-walled alcove, just to the side of the wide, double doors. There, amidst lush potted palms and bright, tropical floral arrangements, each couple or group entering the ballroom paused and struck a pose alongside the large lifesaver mounted with the gaily painted "S.S. SBPD" while a photographer in crisp khaki slacks and a bright red polo snapped away.

"Why won't they just let us go through if we don't want a damned picture?"

"I'm sure we could skip it if we really want."

She tried to force the wistful note from her voice. It wasn't as if Carlton's objections to some of the more frivolous aspects of the theme should have come as any big surprise and God only knew, if she'd attended with Shawn, what sort of idiot pose he would have struck when their turn came. The man never met a camera he didn't love, after all.

"But you don't want to just pass through, do you?"

Carlton's soft question dissipated the all-too-vivid images scrolling through Juliet's mind of Shawn's head stuck through the small opening of the lifesaver, broad, "aren't-I-adorable?" grin on his face. Glancing up, she noted the familiar frown lines firmly in place between Carlton's brows, but otherwise, his overall demeanor reflected the same concern he'd shown her all week. The desire to please—and further back, lurking in the deeper blue depths… simple _desire_. The emotion she'd sensed since the moment he'd appeared on her threshold, staring at her not as a partner or a friend, but a woman. One he wanted and would do anything to get.

Despite his scorn and reservations, he would do this—for her. Simply because he knew it would please her and pleasing her, would please him.

Not for the first time did she wonder what in the _hell_ Marlowe had been thinking. No, Juliet wouldn't deny he was difficult—as he'd said himself, she knew it almost better than anyone. But then again, _difficult_ often tended to yield the greatest rewards.

Suddenly, the memory of his touch on her shoulders, warm and just shy of a caress, washed over her, leaving her feeling more than a little flushed. She allowed the shawl to slip from her shoulders to the crooks of her elbows, noting how his gaze followed the fabric's path down her arms, his eyes narrowing in a way that made her flush all over again.

"It does seem like fun," she admitted softly, trying not to dwell overmuch on the direction her thoughts had taken. "They're going to take candids as well as the portraits and they'll post them on a board as the evening goes on, just like they do on a real cruise ship and we can buy copies before we leave with a portion of the proceeds going to charity."

"It's ridiculous," he muttered, but his tone softened in the next moment as he added, "but I guess a little ridiculous isn't _such_ a bad thing."

"It's really not." She sighed quietly, her thoughts briefly turning inward. "It's only when it's a twenty-four/seven lifestyle choice that it becomes an issue."

"Juliet—"

His touch glanced against her elbow beneath the folds of fabric, but whatever else might have followed was interrupted by a cheery, "Step right on up, passengers—welcome aboard!"

"Son of a _bitch_," he muttered, with another one of those heated blue glances that left Juliet sliding the shawl fully off her arms, unable to bear even the slight weight of the fabric against her skin.

_Naked wouldn't be bad._

_Dear God, don't go there _now_._

_Well, no, not now, because you're surrounded by the majority of Santa Barbara's law enforcement personnel and a public indecency bust would put a crimp in those plans you have…_

_Shhh!_

Thankfully Carlton didn't seem to notice she was on the verge of losing her mind, distracted by stepping into place as directed by the cheerful photographer and narrowing his eyes only slightly as Buzz McNab, waiting with Francie, grinned at them in that happily pleased way he had. Juliet noted how even that the narrow-eyed look faded as she took her place beside Carlton, turning slightly on the photographer's suggestion so the curve of her waist fit smoothly against his hip. Like an elusive missing puzzle piece, she thought as his arm automatically slid around her waist, his hand finding a comfortable niche on her hip, just as it had on her shoulder, warm against her skin through the filmy layers of fabric and not in a way she wanted to shake off any time soon.

_Seriously… naked._

_Shut. It._

Why?_ He's giving out signals, you're giving out signals—you're both virtual semaphores of horniness. Why are you even still hanging around here when you both so clearly want something beyond a prime rib buffet and petit fours platter?_

_Because this isn't _just_ about being horny. The stakes are higher._

Fine_. I suppose you have a point. But girl, it's been entirely too long since we've had good lovin'. And you know this man will put your needs first and foremost._

_Exactly. Which is this has to go… right. He deserves that much._

_Dammit. Another good point. But still—you wanna talk about a prime rib buffet…_

"Gorgeous!" Juliet stared blankly at the photographer, having almost forgotten where they were and what they were doing. The only thing she was aware of was the man beside her, his warmth radiating along her side, solid and steady and her hormones, holding every single muscle hostage. She was almost afraid to move, lest she disintegrate into a puddle of pheromones.

"Prints will be available as the evening progresses so make certain to check the big board out periodically."

With a curious glance down at her, making Juliet aware that _he_ was aware she hadn't been quite all there, Carlton thanked the photographer in a surprisingly gracious fashion and led them from the alcove to the ballroom doors. Most importantly, perhaps, as far as Juliet was concerned, was that his hand never left her body, shifting only slightly from her hip to the small of her back as he guided her into the ballroom and after producing their tickets at the door, leading her toward their table—thankfully _sans_ Woody and whoever he might have cajoled into attending as his date. Instead, they had Buzz and Francie, Sergeant Allen and her date, a ridiculously built fire fighter who hovered protectively close and had Allen practically glowing, and Chief Vick and her husband.

Juliet was concerned that because they were seated with people who knew them so well, Carlton would be, well… Carlton. Or at least, Detective Lassiter—his warmth and desire toned down in the presence of people who worked with them every day. Surprisingly, however, the converse was true. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the sea breezes coming in from the bank of French doors open to the grand terrace and the ocean beyond, maybe it was just that, despite being surrounded by the hundreds of people with whom they interacted during any given work week, it felt as if they were in their own little bubble, but Carlton was…

Carlton.

Not overly talkative or overly solicitous or overly _anything_—he was simply there. Refilling her wine glass without asking and retrieving her napkin when it slid from her lap and carefully replacing it; when conversation was directed his way, was remarkably congenial, talking fishing spots with Buzz, Allen's firefighter, and Vick's husband, and offering surprisingly hysterical memories of some of their more absurd cases, his dry delivery leaving Juliet giggling so hard, she found herself leaning against his shoulder and wiping tears from her eyes.

"Lot of memories, y'all have," Allen's date, whose name was hilariously enough, Alan, observed.

"Enough for ten lifetimes," Carlton responded, as his gaze found Juliet's and they exchanged another smile. As the band that had been playing soft jazz during the dinner portion brought out a vocalist who broke into a smoky, Amy Winehouse-like song, he stood and offered his hand.

"Do me the pleasure, Juliet?"

Her grin softened. "It'd be mine, Carlton."

Following him to the dance floor, she felt herself smoothly turned into his arms and falling into an easy, swaying rhythm.

"I didn't know you knew how to dance."

A half-smile tugged at his mouth. "Not much call for it when you're taking down a perp."

"_Carlton_—"

Even in the dim light of the dance floor his blush was evident, even as he shrugged. "My grandmother insisted. There was a point where Saturdays were dedicated to catechism class in the morning and dance class in the afternoon. Kind of sucked."

With a bit of a flourish, he spun her out and back in, the move bringing her even closer to his chest where she had a lovely, lovely view of the slash of hair-dusted skin revealed by his open collar. A sigh escaped before she could help herself. Another way in which he'd taken the theme of the evening more to heart than she might have expected. He could so easily have slipped into a typical Detective Lassiter dark suit and pale shirt—maybe jazzed it up with one of the vivid ties which he'd adopted over the past few years, and no one would have blinked. He would have looked appropriate and he more than likely would have been comfortable in the protective armor—part of what he used to keep people at a distance.

Instead, however, he'd opted for a suit of the palest shade of wheat, the linen-wool blend draping elegantly over his lean body, and paired it with a fine cotton shirt in one of his favored shades of pale blue that did heart-stopping things to the blue of his eyes. Finishing the look were highly polished brown leather shoes, a matching belt, and a pocket square the exact same shade of blue as his shirt. If one added a straw fedora and shades, he easily could have slipped into the role of a man of leisure in a circa 1940s film because honestly, in this moment, Cary Grant had _nothing_ on Carlton Lassiter.

A man out of time, she thought dreamily as the music segued into a ballad that the Amy Winehouse-wannabe delivered with appropriate pathos and longing ache. Tilting her head back, she met his searching gaze.

"I can imagine it must have sucked for a young boy, but I'm grateful the lessons stuck and to be reaping the dividends."

This time the flush began in that tantalizing sliver of skin exposed by his shirt, prompting in Juliet an intense desire to simply lean forward and press her cheek to that skin—to absorb all that tempting heat. As if he could sense what she wanted, he slowly drew her closer, bringing their clasped hands to his chest where his heart beat steadily, if a bit faster than usual, she imagined. Just like hers. The move caused her other hand to slip up over his shoulder where her fingertips grazed the soft, short ends of his hair while her cheek came to rest if not on the skin left bare by his open collar, then close enough, only the fine cotton of his shirt separating them, her lips tickled by a few stray hairs.

It was sensual and arousing and yet at the same time, the most utterly comforting feeling she'd ever experienced.

It was going to happen. Most likely tonight, but if not, soon.

This man—he simply fit, in a way no other man ever had.

_I was so damned blind._

_You needed context. And so did he._

As the song wound to an end, their easy sway slowed, but his hold on her remained close and strong.

"Juliet—"

Like earlier, as they stood in line, but this time, she didn't need him to complete the sentence. Easing back only far enough to meet his gaze once more, she smiled.

"Just let me pop into the restroom for a moment, then we can leave."

To her surprise, the familiar frown immediately appeared. "The last time a woman told me she was going to use the restroom, she took off and disappeared into the night."

_Marlowe. Dammit._

Beating back her own frown, not to mention the irrational wave of jealousy—_who's he here with, after all_?—Juliet kept her voice light. "I don't think the bathrooms here have windows."

He grimaced, realizing she'd guessed. "I'm sorry." The music began again—another smoky ballad, as if the band sensed this moment required slower tempos and intimate lyrics.

"It is what it is." Almost of its own volition, her hand curved around his neck, her fingers playing more fully through his hair. "But Carlton, we're neither of us those people."

_I'm not her and you're not him._

Silence as his blue gaze bored into hers with a new intensity—one that had less to do with passion or desire and more to do with trust. He knew he could trust her with his life. His heart, however—

"But I know…" she began slowly, "I've hurt you in the past."

His gaze dropped. "You didn't mean to."

"Be that as it may, I did." Her own gaze dropped, focusing on the sharp, precise points of his pocket square. So like Carlton—so immaculate and perfect—even as the fabric of his suit beneath her palm—textured and soft and yielding—was so like him as well. "I… didn't realize. Probably wouldn't have understood, even if I had. And I definitely wasn't… ready."

His voice was soft. "I probably wasn't either."

"But now?"

He pulled her even closer, his warm breath brushing her ear and making her shiver. "I trust you'll return from the bathroom."

She smiled against his suit front. "It'll be the quickest potty break ever."

"I'm holding you to that, O'Hara." His voice was Lassiter gruff, but with an unmistakable undertone that rendered it infinitely personal. "I will not hesitate to come after you."

"Roger that, partner." Reluctantly drawing back, she allowed him to lead her back to their table where she retrieved her evening bag and made a beeline for the luxuriously appointed restrooms.

"Have you seen Lassiter tonight? _God_."

"I know, right? Who knew? Man, I'd take a piece of that for dessert. With whipped cream and a cherry on top."

"Good luck, with the way O'Hara's got her claws in him."

"They're partners. And besides, she's dating Spencer."

"Who's not here, or haven't you noticed? Combine that with how Lassiter's been acting with her tonight? Face it, I think you missed your chance, girl."

"_Pfft._ She's _thirty_."

"You say that as if it's a disease."

"Compared to me, it might as well be. Trust me, Detective O'Hara's gonna find herself needing her own ride home by the end of the night."

"Ah, the folly of youth."

Juliet glanced up to find Chief Vick sitting beside her at the long, well-lit vanity, a wry smile on her face. A moment later, the two twentysomethings who'd been discussing Juliet's decrepitness rounded the corner from the stalls and stopped short. The taller, blonder one—a clerk at the gun range, Juliet recalled—paled, artificially green eyes widening in almost comical fashion.

"Girls," Chief Vick intoned with an edge to the word. "Having a nice time?"

"Uh, yes, ma'am," the shorter—and apparently saner—one managed to stutter, while the other one kept her gaze focused on Juliet who calmly reapplied the bold red lipstick she knew had intrigued Carlton, given how often his glance had dropped to her mouth throughout the evening. A similar shade to what the gun range bimbette was wearing, as it turned out, but combined with the smoky-to-the-point-of excessive eye makeup, the Brazilian blow-out, waist-length hair, and the fire-engine red sequined mini that clearly had required a Brazilian of a different kind, the lipstick sort of lost its impact.

Folly of youth indeed.

"Well, you might want to hurry along, then—" The Chief's voice took on a distinctly evil note. "I heard the emcee say the games would be beginning shortly. I'm sure you don't want to miss those."

"Uh… yes ma'am," the shorter, saner one repeated, tugging at her friend's arm and unwittingly adding to the overall impression by babbling, "C'mon, Brandi—I heard they were going to have a piñata."

Never mind that the piñata would be filled with goodies such as gift certificates to the spa at the resort and tickets for a sunset dinner cruise around the harbor, the overall effect—and its damage—was complete. Juliet smiled in a "I don't need to fight the children for treats at the piñata because I've already got the real prize and don't you even think about making a play for him," way at Brandi's reflection in the mirror that left the bimbette visibly deflating. As the door swung shut behind them, Juliet turned back to Chief Vick who smiled.

"I assume I'll need to be filing the special dispensation paperwork allowing partners to be involved?"

Juliet didn't even try to pretend she didn't know what her boss was talking about. Clearly, she'd overheard more than enough of the preceding conversation, not to mention, had been seated at their table all evening. If two twentysomething bimbos had figured it out, then she _knew_ Vick, savvy and smart as they came, had a damned good read on the situation.

Still, nothing had happened…yet.

"I'll let you know on Monday?" she offered with what felt like only a slight blush.

"All right, then." Vick grinned and added, "Not like I haven't had them filled out and ready to go for years, now."

Juliet didn't have to look in the mirror to know a full-fledged flush was raging across her skin. "Um… years?"

"Years." After applying her own lipstick, she stood and nodded toward the door. "Best get out there before the man wears a hole in the floor with his pacing."

The image of Carlton, worriedly hovering made her smile, but almost immediately it faded as another thought occurred. Putting a hand to Vick's arm, she asked, "Chief—is it really going to be okay? I mean, for Carlton?" She bit her lip, sudden concern making her heart beat faster. If it was a problem, what would she do? What _could_ she do? She couldn't give him up—not this close—

"Relax." Chief Vick's brown eyes were warm and knowing as they considered her. "The situation is far different now. It'll be fine. For both of you. I have the ability and power to make certain of it."

Oh, thank _God_. Too late, perhaps, to be considering it, but she would never forgive herself if she caused damage to Carlton's career—and she knew him. He'd just as soon hug a tree than hurt hers. Thankfully, though, it would appear as if neither would be threatened.

"Thank you."

"I should be thanking you," the Chief said as they made their way through the lobby and back to the ballroom. "I'm not sure what would have happened to Carlton without you as his partner."

"Come again?"

"Oh, Juliet, don't you understand?" Chief Vick's rare use of her first name made the tiny hairs rise on the back of Juliet's neck. The older woman smiled as she stepped away to join her husband. "Simple fact is, you saved him."

The Chief's words echoing in her mind, Juliet's gaze scanned the ballroom, searching for Carlton's tall form, breathing easier as she spotted him by the bar, glass in hand as his gaze ranged across the ballroom, also clearly searching. The moment their gazes met, she felt herself simultaneously melting and standing firmer. A slow smile broke across his face, only to fade so suddenly, Juliet's blood ran cold.

"Jules?"

"Shawn." Her heart dropped as she watched Carlton throw back the contents of his drink, but otherwise make no other move. "What the hell are you doing here?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"What the hell is _he_ doing here?"

Carlton slid a half-annoyed, half-shocked glance in Sergeant Allen's direction.

"Begging your pardon, Detective Lassiter," she added with only token apology underscoring the clear outrage. Now _there_ was a novel concept.

"I always figured you for Team Spencer, Allen," he replied mildly although _mild_ was the last thing he felt. Goddamned Spencer. Showing up. Undoubtedly being Spencer on his best behavior. It was the rare individual who could resist the idiot when he turned on the sincerity and boyish charm. God knows, it had allowed Juliet to forgive him a multitude of sins in the past.

Why should this time be any different?

_Because she's here with you. Because she has every intention of leaving with you._

_Yeah, well, I'd hold up on making that assumption._

_You're an idiot._

"I thought you were among the many charmed by all the adorable quirks."

"What you don't know, Detective, is a _lot_." The woman sniffed as she accepted her umbrella-festooned drink from Alan the Firefighter. "Sure he's smart and he can communicate with my grandmamma and he's cute and all, but let's be real here—as a boyfriend for Detective O'Hara, he kind of sucks."

Carlton lifted an eyebrow as he gestured for refill number three on the Jameson's. Say what you would about the stupid theme for the ball, at least the resort had a well-stocked bar and the barkeeps didn't skimp. He tossed number three back as soon as it was set in front of him and indicated the bartender should pour number four. Wonder if he'd consent to just leave the bottle?

"What? No patented Detective Lassiter sarcastic reply?"

Carlton's eyebrow rose further as he watched Allen calmly sip from her drink.

"How many of those pansy-assed, foofy things have you had tonight?" he snapped, if only to keep him from hammering her with a barrage of questions about _why_ did she think Spencer sucked so much as a boyfriend for Juliet? Never mind that it was true, had always been true, and would always be true, but he'd long thought he was the only one who felt that way. Well, and Juliet, at least, this past week. Hopefully, it would continue to be true.

Allen merely smiled dreamily and sipped some more.

"Look, I know you think all I do is sit back behind my counter and answer phones and issue visitor badges, but let me tell you, Detective, more than anything I watch. And I listen." A small, sly grin crossed her face. "It's amazing how loose folks' lips get when they consider you part of the furniture."

An image of Allen in her uniform with her non-reg gaudy earrings and mystic crystal necklaces flitted in and out of Carlton's mind.

"I'm not sure you could blend if you tried, Allen."

She snorted and took another healthy drink and really, how much booze was in that thing anyway?

"Be that as it may, I see and hear a lot. Like how often Detective O'Hara rolls her eyes at Shawn's comments. How often he completely ignores what she says and what she wants." Her voice dropped as her brows drew together. "I saw how she disappeared into the Ladies Room after Shawn surprised her with her daddy and how she came out with her eyes all puffy and red." She placed her empty glass on the bar with an emphatic _thunk_.

"Time and again, I've heard him flapping his gums and the way he goes on, a body would think he doesn't have a care in the world other than himself—much less a girlfriend he supposedly loves and should take into consideration. No—" Allen crossed her arms and shook her head. "He's a sweet boy, really, he is, but he's still a _boy_. And as a romantic partner, he sucks."

"Baby, you're getting yourself all worked up." Alan put a soothing hand to Allen's shoulder that she impatiently shrugged off.

"Don't you 'baby' me, Alan. You know what I've told you—how this man—" pointing an accusing finger at Carlton— "has been there for her, every single time it's counted. For _years_. Now he's finally got the chance he's deserved all along and yet here he is, acting like a damned fool and drinking himself stupid just because Shawn Spencer's shown up dressed like some damned peacock."

"Duckie," Carlton interjected, as amused by the terrified expression on the big firefighter's face as he was alarmed by Allen's fervor. Who knew his love life was of such import to the sergeant?

"What?"

Carlton glanced over to where Juliet stood by the ballroom doors with Spencer, decked out in a blue brocade dinner jacket, bolo tie, and scuffed white shoes, hair gelled into a perfect duck's ass.

"He's dressed like Duckie at the prom in _Pretty in Pink_." He felt the tips of his ears heat at Allen's raised-eyebrow stare. "_What_? It was my little sister's favorite movie. Got conned into watching it too damned many times."

Mostly because Lauren _loved_ Duckie. And while Carlton could admit—reluctantly—that the late-80s gel-head wasn't a _bad_ guy, he had related more to Blaine, ridiculous wealth notwithstanding. He'd understood the kid's sense of obligation and his difficulty in breaking away from the burdens of expectations. He'd never, ever confess it out loud—hell, he barely confessed it in his own head—but he'd always been quietly pleased that Andi saw Blaine's good qualities in the end and chose him, regardless of Lauren's squawking of Andi and Duckie For EVAH.

Hell, it worked out okay—Duckie admitted that Blaine wasn't all bad and as a bonus, wound up with a shallow blonde who was undoubtedly perfect for him.

"Thought that outfit looked familiar," Alan mused, shrugging as Carlton and Allen turned disbelieving stares his direction. "We have a deluxe satellite package at the station—that movie's always on, it seems."

"Whatever." Allen waved a dismissive hand. "He looks ridiculous."

Carlton couldn't disagree.

"And more important, he doesn't look right." Abruptly, Allen grabbed onto Carlton's wrist and dragged his shocked and unresisting form toward the back wall. "Not like that," she huffed, dropping his wrist and gesturing toward the wall-mounted board.

"Look at those two, Detective, and tell me _that_ doesn't look right," she said softly as she pushed him closer.

Carlton felt heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment or even the amount of alcohol he'd consumed start deep in his chest, heating further as his heartbeat sped up, leaving him feeling hypersensitive and likely to combust from the inside out.

"Holy—" he breathed as his gaze took in first, the posed shot of him and Juliet in the alcove, her body curved into his as they both smiled for the photographer. Nice photo—certainly one of the nicer ones he'd ever seen of himself, but it was the one Allen was pointing to with a sparkling purple fingernail that held his breath hostage.

"Holy…" he started again as he stared at the two of them—one of those casual shots the photographer had warned them about. He'd been so certain they'd look stupid, because he'd spot the photographers a mile away and stiffen up, but apparently, being in Juliet's company had a way of rendering him blind to everything around him, because there it was, in full color. Seated at their table, Juliet's head against his shoulder, eyes closed as she smiled broadly while his head was bent over hers his own gaze downcast, as if taking her in. And why wouldn't he? Look at her—just… look. She was glorious. And in that moment, she was fully with him.

Was fully… his.

What was most fascinating to him about the photograph, however, was the expression on _his_ face—the smile, the utter contentment that was so foreign as to render him nearly unrecognizable.

The man in that picture was a man who was… _happy_.

"Allen—" he said sharply as he took the photographs from the wall, "I love you."

He dropped a kiss to her cheek and added, "And if you tell anyone I said that, I'll deny it. Vehemently."

Carlton didn't even care that the sergeant was laughing as he strode away. She could laugh all she wanted.

He had things to do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

This had easily been the longest five—Juliet spared a discreet glance down at her wrist—_eight_—minutes of her entire life.

And that included any eight of the minutes of which she'd spent suspended high above the city streets, strapped to a chair and held up only by a wire that threatened to snap at any given moment.

Like she had during that long, endless night, she found herself thinking _Where's Carlton?_

Funny how she'd never once thought _Where's Shawn?_ even after Yin had called him so she could deliver the cryptic clue. It had always been _Where's Carlton?_

Even amidst the faint, shameful hurt and disappointment that Shawn had, indeed, gone for Abigail, she'd been so certain that if anyone came for her, it would be Carlton.

And he had.

_Always been the one you can count on, right?_

_You know, you can lay off. I get it. I got it before this moment._

_So why are you still standing here, talking to Shawn?_

_I don't know… maybe because he's trying? In his own… Shawn sort of way._

_Exactly—his own Shawn sort of way. Why don't you ask him where he got the ticket that allowed him entry?_

"…so you see, Jules, I finally got it. I got how important this was to you. I'm sorry you felt like you had to temporarily break up with me although I think changing your security code was a bit much—"

"Where'd you get the ticket?"

"Oh, well, don't you remember, you told me what the code was, ages ago, when you had that really nasty cold and were loopy on meds and what?"

Juliet crossed her arms and sighed as Shawn blinked, his expression screwing up into a Variation on a Theme of Poop Face. Typical. So prepared with the lie he expected to deliver, an unexpected question threw him for a loop—but only temporarily, because Shawn was nothing if not quick on his feet. Always had been.

"Gus very generously gave his up."

"By which you really mean you stole it," a blessedly familiar voice drawled behind her as an equally familiar hand lit on her back.

"Hey," she murmured, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. "Was beginning to wonder if you'd ducked out the bathroom window."

"The bathrooms don't have windows."

While they grinned at each other, Shawn's brows drew together yet again, as if her and Carlton's exchange was being conducted in a foreign language.

_Ha_.

Now he had an inkling of what it was like for other people when he and Gus ventured off on one of their pop-culture, idiot savant discourses. Not that he'd make the connection, because it was always going to be _different_ for him.

Not that it mattered worth a damn to her.

"Sorry," Carlton said, his hand subtly stroking her back. "I got caught up talking to Allen."

"Really? And your forehead vein isn't throbbing?" she teased, while from the corner of her vision, she saw Shawn's face continue to contort. She was half-tempted to smack him on the back to see if his face would stay frozen that way.

"Ha, ha," Carlton retorted. "She's okay," he added in a way that Juliet filed away for later elaboration. The sergeant was a lovely lady, but her "hoodoo voodoo, superstitious claptrap" had habitually driven Carlton bananas in the past, especially since it generally meant she was agreeing with something Shawn said. While Carlton _had_ been surprisingly mellow tonight, for him to admit "she's okay," was akin to agreeing that vegans were okay. She wondered how much he'd had to drink tonight.

"So, Jules, now that I'm here, let's go do those things you're supposed to do on a pseud-cruise. The buffet looks awesome, but before we dive in—get it? Dive in? Ha! I kill me." He snickered. "Let's get our picture taken—looks like a pretty sweet setup. I'm really digging the lifesaver."

Juliet's eyes widened as Shawn's hand closed around her wrist, not tight, but with a definite air of assumption. Not to mention—_ugh_—a film of something slightly clammy.

"That is _so_ typical of you, Shawn."

He blinked. "What?"

"You blew me off about this for _three_ months and now, you show up in this ridiculous get up—"

Behind her Carlton murmured something that sounded like "ducky," and she really was going to have to ask him how much he'd had to drink tonight, because he was so not sounding like himself.

"Get up?" Shawn's outrage was palpable and very real—not the manufactured Shawn! Outrage he so often used as distraction. "Do you understand how difficult it was to track down an authentic pair of white ducks?" He pointed his foot like some sort of demented ballerina. "Not to mention the bolo tie. It took waiting around for just the right moment to sneak this puppy out of Dad's closet."

"I. Don't. Care." Juliet ground out and it was amazing how very true that statement was. "You could have hired the entire USC marching band—on Gus' credit card, no doubt—to serenade me upon arrival and it wouldn't matter and you know why?" Yanking her wrist free she hissed, "Because it's too damned late."

His eyes widened, honest surprise in them. "But Jules, isn't this what you—"

"Spencer, give it up."

Carlton.

Juliet leaned back in relief, knowing he'd be there, solid and warm.

"Lassie, why are you still here? This is between me and Jules."

"I beg to differ." Once again his hand stroked her back, soothing, his even tone communicating he had this. "Seeing as she's my date tonight."

"Lassie? You came with _Lassie_?" Shawn's outrage hit DefCon 5 levels, along with his voice and hell's _bells_. There they went again, being the center of attention.

Juliet was just _so_ damned tired of her love life being department gossip fodder and as usual, it was only being around Shawn that tended to inspire such interest. On the heels of that familiar thought came a new, surprising one—as unexpected as her and Carlton's behavior tonight must have seemed to their coworkers, no one had acted unduly shocked or surprised. Outside of the occasional curious glance everyone had more or less treated them the same.

As if there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Compared to the raised eyebrows and furious gossip from when she and Shawn had first come out as a couple.

And pretty much ever since.

"Yes, I did."

"But… _why_?"

"He asked," she replied simply.

Shawn's eyes narrowed as his gaze rose above her head. "What about Marlowe?" he demanded.

"Not here." Cold. Implacable. Brooking no further comment or question at risk of life and limb.

Not that _that_ had ever stopped Shawn.

"Didn't waste any time, did you?" And it was difficult to tell to whom he was directing the accusation, not that it mattered, since Juliet couldn't have stopped herself if she'd tried.

Luckily, Carlton _could_, holding her arm in a firm but gentle grip, inches from connecting with Shawn's stubbled cheek. Through a red haze, she thought she could even detect a few crumbs of… something in the corner of his mouth. Probably whatever had left the oily film on his hands.

"Spencer," Carlton was saying evenly. "I suggest you leave and return the ticket you stole to Guster, who's looking more than a little hacked."

After a quick glance up, Juliet followed Carlton's gaze through the open doors to where Gus was indeed, standing, wearing a sharp white dinner jacket and familiar thunderous expression as he gestured to the ticket taker.

"Jules," Shawn began with a wary glance at the hand still mere inches from his face, "Come on, give me another chance. You can't deny I tried."

"No, Spencer, you really didn't," Carlton answered. "Because if you'd exerted even a fraction of the same effort you use to track down Señor Sparky's Shave Ice truck on any given day, it'd be you standing here with her, not me."

"Oh, come on," Shawn scoffed, still so unwilling to accept the truth it left Juliet stunned. There honestly wasn't any other reality in his world beyond the one he chose to construct for himself was there? Even the Wizard of Oz had been well aware he was just a guy behind a curtain.

"Face it, Lass—you're just the pity date. The poor substitute for the one she really wanted all along."

"No, Shawn."

Juliet took a step back—then another. Carlton, sensing she needed distance, loosened his hold, yet as his hand slid from her arm, she managed to grasp it in a brief clasp, meeting his gaze with a small smile he returned. Taking another step back she took in both men: Shawn as impeccably dressed as she'd ever personally seen him—ridiculous, yes, in the blue brocade jacket that smelled vaguely of mothballs and his hair gelled back into something that looked like it was straight out of her high school's production of _Grease_—but still fairly put together. And fidgeting like a five year-old in church.

Then there was Carlton.

She sighed.

It wasn't even fair, really.

And she was an _idiot_. Or rather, had been.

"No, Shawn," she repeated softly. "I think you have that backwards." Taking a step that brought her back alongside Carlton, she sighed again at the automatic touch of his hand to her back. Soothing, ever-so-slightly possessive, arousing.

"I know I did." She gazed up at Carlton, hoping he could understand what she was saying. "For too long."

A short laugh escaped. "Come on, Jules, that sounds as if you're saying—" Shawn's jaw dropped as comprehension finally penetrated the miasma of whatever he'd most recently consumed. "Wait a minute." He backed away a step. "Wait a minute— _Lassie_?"

"See you around, Spencer."

Before Juliet could draw a full breath, Carlton had smoothly moved them past a still-gaping Shawn and a wide-eyed Gus who'd managed to talk his way into the ballroom, and through the doors, not pausing until they were past the "gangplank" and well into the large rotunda, the majestic chandelier dimmed to a romantic glow. The low light played off the water feature, reflecting off the vibrant koi fish placidly swimming about and casting shadows in which to hide.

She could relate. She felt as calm and weightless as they must—as protected from the outside world as if surrounded by an ocean's worth of water.

"Thank you."

Carlton turned, his hand capturing hers. It was as if granted the freedom to touch, he couldn't seem to stop. She hoped. Dear _God_, she hoped.

His thumb played across the back of her hand, light as the sea breezes drifting through the opened French doors and every bit as seductive. "For what?"

"For more than we have time for, right now. But I promise, I'll list them all—" She moved a step closer, her words hesitant. "If you'll grant me the time."

His eyes deepened to the intense blue she'd seen so many times before—that had captured her attention so many times before—but this time, she got it. She understood its source.

"If I could, I'd start granting you the time right this second," he said quietly.

"But—"

"But we have to wait—at least until I can safely drive." A faint blush swept across his skin. "When I saw Spencer I kind of got a little friendlier with the Jameson's than I should have."

"Silly man." Her free hand rose to cup his cheek. "Is that where Allen came in?"

"Yeah." The corners of his mouth twitched. "She's apparently Team Lassiter."

Juliet's brows rose. _Team Lassiter?_ "You'll have to explain that later."

"I can explain it now." He sighed and looked mildly disgusted before his expression turned hopeful. "Unless you want to drive?"

"Not necessary." Before his brows could settle into their habitual frown, she reached into her bag and drew something out—the item she'd made certain not to leave home without. "I was perhaps a bit presumptuous."

His eyebrows rose as he took in the key card embossed with the resort's logo, the muscles of his throat working as he swallowed hard and holy hell, she wanted to reach up and drag her tongue down along that long, sexy column.

_Soon… soon…_

"No," he drawled, a note that matched the intensity of his gaze coloring his low voice. "I'd say you exhibited exceptional foresight, Detective."

She felt herself drawn against him—felt the tension and desire vibrating through his body and stoking hers.

"Still, pretty shameless."

"I _like_ shameless." His lips ghosted along the sensitive rim of her ear, his breath a warm, whisky-scented caress.

"And you can presume any damned thing you want with me."

Well then.

Well.

Wordlessly, she turned and led him away, anxious to get to the room she'd reserved with more than a little trepidation and a whole lot of hope.

Because she, Juliet O'Hara, had a lot of _presuming_ to do.


	8. Chapter 8

**M ahead...**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"What are you thinking?"

Carlton watched as Juliet's fingertips lightly traced the outlines of the images captured by the photographer. As fascinated by those two people as he'd been.

She released a long, slow breath. "So much."

"I know what you mean." He reached out and pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, savoring the silky texture of her hair, the softness of her skin.

Carlton hadn't been sure what would happen once they crossed the threshold. Well, he _knew_, obviously—he wasn't that big an idiot. What he was unsure about was the manner in which it would unfold. Would she take the lead? Would he? Would it be frantic or slow or something in between or… or…

_Hell_, he didn't know. He just didn't know.

All he knew is that it would happen. Tonight. After seven years of dancing around this moment in various ways and having resigned himself to the sure knowledge it would never happen—it was going to happen.

But like everything else between them, even those first moments alone with that knowledge had unfolded in unique fashion. Juliet had sunk to the edge of the bed, slipped off her shoes, and eased back against the pillows with an inviting smile. Admittedly, non-verbal cues weren't exactly his forte, but even he understood that silent request. Shucking his suit jacket as well as his shoes, Carlton had stretched out beside her with a relieved sigh.

Lying on the bed, half-reclined, they faced each other, hands linked, and after seven years' worth of moments spent together, savored the unique sensation of simply _being_ together. There hadn't been much conversation—there didn't need to be, between them—but at one point she'd idly asked what was in the envelope he'd carefully set on the nightstand. That was when he'd shown her the pictures and after a quiet gasp that echoed the same surprise he'd felt, had lapsed into a meditative silence he'd finally broken with his question.

"So much time wasted," she said softly, her gaze still resolutely focused on the photograph of them seated at the table and smiling. "So much I didn't see."

"No." After glancing at the photo—at how right they appeared together—he placed his hand beneath her chin and tilted her face until her gaze met his.

"Those people—they're new, Juliet. That picture wouldn't have happened seven years ago or five years ago or even last year. It _couldn't_ have happened."

"But—"

"No," he repeated, soft but firm. Again, while introspection wasn't generally something at which he was particularly adept, in this case, understanding was instinctive and sure. "We had to grow into those people, Juliet. You were twenty-four when you joined the force—hadn't lived a whole hell of a lot, I wasn't divorced yet and I was pissed off at the whole damned world. You were intent on proving yourself and I sure as hell didn't consider you an equal. You said it yourself earlier tonight—you weren't ready and neither was I. The people we were back then wouldn't have lasted a minute."

Her gaze was wide and unblinking, their lovely blue darkening as she considered what he was saying. "But now?"

"Now we're different." Carlton looked down at the picture. "We're them. And those people, I think… they have a good chance." He paused and weighed his next words. Without raising his gaze he very carefully said, "I've… never been friends with a lover before, Juliet. Not like this."

It was the closest he could come to confessing. In many ways, a more difficult confession than the actual words—after all, you could love without a whole lot of _like_ actually entering the equation. The final years of his marriage to Victoria had taught Carlton that. But to be friends with someone the way he was friends with Juliet and to then allow her entry into that final protected part of himself?

Terrifying, because so much more was on the line.

Turned out he wasn't the only one who was afraid. Her hushed "Me neither," carried the same sort of fear he was experiencing, which perversely, allowed him to finally take a full breath. To take control and move them to that inevitable next step, even though he knew the control was just an illusion. They were partners—in all respects. They'd take that next step and all the ones that followed together.

After returning the photograph safely back to the nightstand, he gently rolled Juliet until her back faced him. Clearly understanding what he wanted, she bent her head, allowing her hair to fall away from her neck and leaving her neck exposed and _finally_, he was able to do what he'd so wanted to do from the moment he'd first seen that vulnerable curve. She shivered as he placed his mouth to her skin, her breath leaving her in a long, shuddery sigh he echoed. He kissed his way down her neck, his tongue tracing the subtle bumps and ridges of her spine as his hands moved to her zipper, exposing more smooth, warm skin, pale but growing more flushed with each touch and caress.

"Carlton," she breathed, as one hand slipped beneath the fabric and slid around to her stomach, holding her close.

For long minutes he did nothing more than explore the lovely expanse of her back with his mouth, the hand on her abdomen holding her steady. The temptation to move that hand up to explore the curves of her breasts or down to the heat between her thighs was hugely tempting, but he somehow, he found the discipline within himself to hold back. There was just something so damned sensual and erotic about simply exploring her back with his free hand and his mouth—such an exquisite, unbroken expanse of smooth warm skin—so sensitive and responsive. The way she shivered beneath his touch was intoxicating—leaving him lightheaded and as warm from the inside as if he'd been sipping the smoothest, finest Irish whisky.

He could stay there forever, he thought, except for her breathy, "_Carlton_—"

Less sigh and more anxious, as she moved restlessly beneath his hands and mouth. With a quick move, she rolled and brought herself flush against him, her hands framing his face as her wide blue gaze searched his.

"Enough," she whispered. "You don't have to be scared—I'm not going anywhere."

He searched her gaze as intently as she searched his—read in them the calm steadiness he'd grown to rely on along with a new heat and intensity. And with that came a new sense of wonder—he'd done that to her. _He'd_ made her feel that.

How on earth could he possibly be afraid, knowing he could do _that_?

He brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheek, briefly closing his eyes as she turned her head and ghosted a kiss along his skin.

Opening them, he murmured, "So damned beautiful."

Her smile was as gentle as ever, but with a predatory edge that stoked his own desire. "So damned yours." She rolled to her back, her hair fanning out against the pristine white pillow case in a dark gold halo. "_Make_ me yours."

And because Carlton could never refuse Juliet anything, he proceeded to do just as she requested. First he leaned forward and for the first time, kissed her. He fit his mouth to hers, teasing the lush curve of her lower lip with his tongue before leisurely exploring her mouth. As her tongue emerged to stroke his in an intent, deliberate rhythm, she unbuttoned his shirt, her warm hands spreading over his chest, causing his head to fall back as her nails left fiery trails along his ribs and scratched lightly at his nipples. With a growl, he reclaimed her mouth more fully, groaning again as she met his assault with equal fervor and passion, her teeth nipping at his lower lip as her hands moved to his back, her nails digging more aggressively into his skin, prompting him to respond to her silent demands.

His mouth trailed along the line of her neck and lovely slope of her shoulder as he slowly pulled her dress off, his breathing quickening as her body was fully revealed, a beautiful symphony of toned muscle and yielding curves. Curves he explored as he had her back, with hands and mouth, taking his time—knowing they had all the time. He spent endless moments at her breasts, stroking and cupping, teasing the nipples to hardness with his teeth and when she shivered and cried out and clutched at his hair, soothing them with gentle caresses from his tongue and soft exhalations that left her shivering anew and arching against him.

Moving lower, he drew her underwear off, stroking the smooth length of her legs as he did while his mouth unerringly went to her heat, groaning as he felt her thighs involuntarily close around his head before falling open. One of her hands returned to his head, at first stroking gently then as he brought her closer to the edge, tightening in his hair, the slight pain acting as a prompt, urging him on.

_So amazing. So damned amazing_.

The words echoed repeatedly through his mind as he delved deeper—tasted her more fully. Juliet was simply amazing. To be touching and tasting and feeling her trembling beneath his touch—to hear her breathing quicken, crying out as he pushed her into one orgasm, then moments later, another, whimpering his name, saying she wanted more.

Gasping—

"_More. Please… more. Make me yours, Carlton. Please._"

Rising, he quickly shucked the rest of his clothes and lowered himself not over her, but beside her. At her quizzical look, he grasped her waist and rolled to his back, groaning as her body settled over his. Drinking her in, her skin glowing and lightly sheened with sweat; warm and already molded so perfectly to him, he made his first request: "Make me yours, Juliet."

Her eyes widened briefly before she leaned forward, claiming his mouth once more, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she undulated slowly against him, once, then twice… each motion shifting her slightly, bringing her closer until finally, the right angle was achieved and she slid slowly back, smooth, tight heat. Just shy of fully enclosing him, she paused, her body suspended above his, her breasts brushing his chest in an agonizing caress. Her gaze held his steadily, her desire clear.

Hands to her hips, he rose as she lowered, their connection finally complete—in all ways.

His partner. His equal.

His everything.


	9. Chapter 9

**Warning: **Shmoop and **M **and still more shmoop ahead. And yanno... **M.**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Juliet lay quietly, watching. She wasn't sure if Carlton knew she was awake—that she'd _been_ awake for quite some time, doing nothing more than lying amidst the tangled sheets, breathing deep of them, and watching. If he _was_ aware, he gave no indication, remaining still, forearms propped on on the balcony railing as he stared out over the ocean, his lean body and distinctive profile etched in sharp lines against the pearl gray dawn.

He was such a _still_ person, she thought, not for the first time. At twenty-four, that stillness had been a mystery. After all, in order to discover, to solve, one needed to move, to talk, to be proactive, right? As time passed, however, she'd learned how his stillness allowed for discovery on a fundamentally deeper level. More importantly, she'd grown to appreciate it—especially in contrast to the hyperkinetic barrage that was Shawn.

Time spent with Carlton had evolved over the years from mystifying to soothing to restorative to needed. Simply put, he'd become her buffer—her security—against all the ugliness and everyday aggravations with which they dealt.

She couldn't help but wonder how he saw her.

She sat up, careful to move quietly, unwilling to disturb that stillness. A plush robe lay draped across the foot of the bed and she smiled faintly as she drew it on over her nakedness. He must have placed it there when he got up—no doubt plagued with renewed uncertainty as to how _she_ might react in the light of day to the fact that they'd moved beyond friends and partners to the emotional minefield of lovers. It defied logic that he wouldn't understand that the only thing that had changed was that they'd had sex. Really, _really_ good sex. Hours' worth.

Of which she wanted more. And knew he did, too.

But first, to reassure him he hadn't imagined all of the emotions leading to those many hours' worth of sex.

Padding up behind him, she slipped her arms around his waist, stroking the skin left bare since he hadn't bothered buttoning his shirt after the shower he'd obviously taken, judging by the clean smell of him and his messy, still-damp hair. She leaned her cheek against his back and sighed as one of his hands came to rest over hers, linking their fingers together in a warm, intimate clasp.

Small steps.

"Are you overthinking?"

His chest rose and fell beneath their hands. "Probably."

"I wish you wouldn't." Before he could say anything, she quickly added, "But I know it's your nature." After another deep breath, this time on her part, she quietly asked, "Do you need some time?"

His low-pitched voice was soft. "Do you?"

"No."

And yet another deep breath, this one shuddering fully against her body as beneath her hand, his heartbeat sped up. Gently, she stroked his chest, her own heartbeat racing and fresh desire pooling low in her belly at the feel of warm skin and coarse hair, and the continual faint tremors making his muscles twitch and shiver beneath her touch. Without a word, she took a step, then another, backing into the room. He turned and watched—so very _still_—as Juliet slowly untied the robe and with a subtle roll of her shoulders, allowed it to slip off and land at her feet in a pool of soft white terry. She supposed she could blame the sudden onslaught of cool air for the goosebumps rippling across her skin and instant hardening of her nipples—but she'd be lying. Her body's reactions had bubkes to do with ocean breezes and every damned thing to do with that watchful and so-intent gaze. In fact, rather than cool, she felt overheated and almost impossibly sensitive, as if his slow, deep blue glance was caressing her from the inside out as it ranged over her body, not missing a _thing_ and leaving her more than a little breathless.

"Do you need some time?" she repeated softly.

"Hell no."

A slow smile softened the normally stern lines of his face into the expression that she'd first seen as he undressed her the night before and with which she'd grown intimately familiar. Passionate, predatory, yet overlaying it all, wonder—as if still overwhelmed that this was all real.

She could relate.

As he approached, she held his gaze, growing only mildly alarmed as his expression shifted and something new took over, something akin to the predatory but… but…

"Carlton!"

She gasped as she landed on the bed beneath him, his thigh immediately insinuating itself between hers as his warm, long-fingered hands stroked up her thighs, to her hips, to her waist where he…

"_Carlton!_"

She squirmed beneath him as he grinned and proceeded to tease waist and ribs, and in a particularly evil move, pinned one arm up and mercilessly tickled while she shrieked and pounded at his back and writhed beneath him. And even beneath the onslaught of sensation, still giggling and protesting as he continued to tickle, she felt heat growing, enough to make her clamp her thighs around his, her lower body arching against his obvious arousal even as her upper body still twisted. Except now she was twisting up _toward_ him, gasping for altogether different reasons as her breasts brushed his chest and her lower body rocked against his thigh, getting closer… closer… yet not close enough.

"Carlton…"

He paused and that pause was all she needed. With a twist of her body she flipped them over, shifting to straddle his waist. She stared down at him, taking him in—the black-and-silver hair, the familiar lines of his face, the crooked nose, the stern mouth that could soften into a surprisingly sensual curve, and always, those ever-changing eyes, brilliant with humor yet growing darker by the second with the same heat consuming her—and felt that same overwhelming sense of wonder she'd seen in him.

This was all real.

Beneath her palms his chest vibrated as he murmured "Now what?" in that low voice with which she'd also grown intimately familiar the night before and God help her if he ever used that exact pitch and timbre during the work day.

Juliet made a mental note to identify all the janitorial and supply closets and any other secluded areas in the precinct.

Then she got busy.

First she pushed the shirt from his shoulders, allowing him to rise just far enough for her to pull it away. Tossing it aside, she lowered herself over him, kissing that mouth that fit hers so well, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips until he opened to her with a sigh, his arms closing tight around her. Her hands slid into his still-damp hair, feeling the curls and cowlicks twisting around her fingers in their own sensual embrace. He sighed again as she lightly scratched at his scalp and the sensitive skin of his neck, her fingertips trailing around to tease a line down the strong column of his throat, rough with his morning beard. Desperate to feel more, she kissed her way down his throat, following the path her fingers had taken, the sensation of that hair-roughened skin making her lips tingle and causing her to press more tightly to him.

Slowly and carefully, she made a feast of his body, kissing his chest, nipping at his nipples with her teeth, trailing her tongue down across the flat planes of his abdomen, feeling his half-gasp, half-laugh as her fingers teased his navel and the smooth skin just above his waistband. Smoothly, she undid button and zipper, rubbing her cheek against him and breathing deep.

"Juliet."

He'd been remarkably quiet, simply allowing her to play and explore him anew, but now, in that one word, she heard his desperation, felt in the tension of his thighs and the fingers he had twisted in her hair, what the control was costing him.

"Shhh…" she breathed as she pushed slacks and briefs down the long, muscled length of his legs. "Shhh…" This time, she directed the stream of air directly where she knew he was most sensitive, her hands stroking his thighs, just before she enclosed him completely with her mouth.

"_Juliet_—" At the edge of her vision she could see one hand desperately fisted in the sheet, while the one on her head remained tense, yet unmistakably gentle.

Just like the man himself, she thought as she lost herself completely in pleasuring him. Live wire tension and intensity masking an infinite gentleness he rarely showed the world.

That was fine—he didn't have to show the world. Just her. Just as she'd do for him.

She teased and tormented, feeling the muscles of his abdomen and thighs bunch and release as she'd bring him close to the edge, then retreat, slowly soothing him, only to do it again and again and again relishing his sighs and moans, experiencing a surge of pride and arousal that she held such control over this man who prided himself so on maintaining control.

And even so—even as she teased and tortured—she was well aware that he was giving himself over to her. That if he didn't want her to have control, there was no way he would have ever ceded it.

He _wanted_ her.

And she wanted him. _Now_.

Easing her way back up his body, she lay flush over him, gasping as he grabbed her head and pulled her down for a ferocious kiss, open mouth, tongue stroking hers in an aggressive, passionate, I-own-_you_-now attack. In one smooth move he rolled them over and slid into her desperate, willing body. He grabbed one of her thighs, pulling it high over his hip as he battered into her, rough, just this side of pain, but the expression in his eyes—fierce, tender, loving—served to temper the ferocity, blending the two sensations into one that left her immediately gasping with a release too-long needed, then before she could even recover, gasping again as he pulled her upright, torso tight against his as her legs embraced his waist.

They fell into a slow, sensual rhythm, Juliet bracing her hands on his shoulders and rising and falling as he thrust into her. Her head fell back as he lowered his mouth to her breasts, his hands on her back holding her steady. Holding her completely, inside and out.

_This is it. This is… it._

_Took you long enough._

_Oh… God… just… shut up._

_After you tell him._

_Now? _

_You're as close as two people can be—physically and emotionally. Tell him._

"I love you, Carlton."

His head rose to meet her gaze.

Passion, ownership, surrender, hope, love—all the shades of blue in those remarkable eyes as he stared, stunned into that distinctive stillness.

"I love you," she repeated, her hands rising to frame his face. Leaning forward, she kissed him, murmuring, "I love you, Carlton Lassiter. I really do," against his mouth, tasting in his response his initial shock and disbelief dissolving into acceptance with each kiss—each gentle stroke of her tongue against his.

Still silent, he gently eased them back down to the mattress. Grasping her hands, he began moving again, slow, deliberate thrusts, his gaze never leaving hers, watchful and intent, gauging how close she was getting, one hand moving between them to stroke her to a mind-shattering orgasm and only then, did he let himself go, holding her close, head buried in the crook of her shoulder as his body shuddered against hers.

Even muffled by her neck, his whispered words were clear—or maybe it was simply because she didn't need to actually hear them, surrounded by him as she was.

"Love you."

"This is a good thing." She gently stroked his head, hair damp now with sweat. "I'd hate to be stuck out here in Hopelessly in Love Land all by myself."

"Not a chance." He eased off her body, but remained close, his head resting on the pillow alongside hers. As had already become his practice, he immediately reached for her, taking her hand in his and playing his thumb over her fingers. "How long do we have the room for?"

"Just 'til this morning," she replied, a real note of regret in her voice. "However, there's no reason we can't continue this in our own bed."

"Our?"

"Yes. _Our_." She rolled over onto him, propping her arms on his chest. "I know you said we didn't waste time before we realized what we had between us and I accept that, but I also refuse to waste any time now that we're finally here." She bit her lip at his raised eyebrow expression, his eyes huge in his still-flushed face. "I'm being presumptuous again, aren't I?"

"Hell no." His arms tightened around her, his hands drifting down to her backside and holding her tight against him and oh… oh, _my_. Clearly, he had no intention of wasting any time either, as she felt the faint stirrings of fresh arousal.

"You, Detective O'Hara, are merely showing remarkable foresight."

She grinned. "Glad to hear you approve, Detective Lassiter."

Eyes dark with intent, he growled, "What time's check out?"

"Noon," she gasped as his mouth latched onto the base of her throat.

"Excellent." His voice rumbled against her throat as his teeth worried the sensitive skin. "Plenty of time for me to show you how very much I approve of your foresight before we go home."

With the last of her operating brain cells, she managed to ask, "Which one?"

He drew back and met her gaze. "Does it matter?"

"No." Her answer was immediate and sure. Lowering her mouth to his she whispered, "I'm already home."


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

_**One Year Later…**_

"Oh, Lord, what the hell is _he_ doing here?"

Carlton's eyebrow rose as he calmly sipped the last of his whisky. "Rumor has it he actually bought a ticket."

Sergeant Allen snorted. "Now I _know_ you don't believe that nonsense."

"Of course not." He set his empty glass on the bar, shaking his head at the bartender's silent question. "I simply said it was the rumor."

"Why Gus puts up with that behavior—"

"Actually," Carlton interrupted, "I think he might have relieved Henry of his ticket."

He nodded toward the ballroom doors where a clearly frustrated Henry stood, a flowing velvet robe draped over his sharp tux and holding the crown that denoted the retired detective-cum-consultant liaison, King of Mardi Gras, this year's ridiculous ball theme. Ridiculous or not, it had at least provided the department with a convenient way in which to honor members of the force, both past and present, by creating a Royal Court. Carlton had been in Vick's office the day she'd called Henry in to give him the news and knew just how touched the older man had been that his former coworkers thought so highly of him. While Henry was as aware of his own abilities and intelligence as his idiot son, he didn't have the same deep-seated need to be publicly lauded for them and certainly didn't expect it. This would be a rare moment in the sun for him and yet, here Shawn was, being… Shawn, leaving Henry arguing with the ticket taker at the door.

"You gonna do anything about that?" Allen asked as she accepted a Hurricane from Alan the Firefighter, taking an appreciative sip of the frou-frou-y pink cocktail.

"About Henry?"

Allen hit him with a glare before turning her head to stare meaningfully across the dance floor to where Juliet, stunning in a deep red gown, stood ostensibly talking to Shawn—appropriately dressed this year, if one could consider a full Court Jester's motley and bell-festooned hat "appropriate"—but in reality, directing a death stare in Carlton's direction, her expression growing more thunderous as he smiled faintly and waved.

Beside him, Allen sighed.

"Detective, far be it from me to interfere in your personal life, but you are gonna be in a world of hurt if you don't get over there and save her from that fool."

Carlton full-out grinned as he watched Juliet's expression evolve into _Get Over Here _Now. "Come on, Allen, O'Hara's more than capable of handling herself—especially with him."

The sergeant snorted again, making Carlton wonder how many of the deceptively innocent-looking drinks she'd already had.

"Baby—"Alan started but lapsed into immediate silence at the look Allen shot him.

"Now, Alan, what have I told you about 'baby'-ing me?" Turning back to Carlton she jabbed a sparkling gold fingernail into his pristine ivory shirtfront. "All right, then, Detective, let me put this in language you might understand, being a _man_ and all—if you don't get over there and _now_, I can guaran-damn-tee you're likely to get real friendly with your sofa."

"O'Hara wouldn't do that." He sounded confident. He _was_ confident, considering he and Juliet had been inseparable in the year since the last Policeman's Ball, not spending even a single night apart. It didn't mean he hadn't been in hot water on occasion—he was still _him_, after all—but there hadn't been any transgression so severe that couldn't be fixed by a few quiet moments and acknowledgement that yes, he'd been an idiot.

Judging by the expression on Juliet's face, however, he might be entering new realms of _transgression_.

"O'Hara might not," Allen retorted with another poke to his chest, "but your _wife_ just might."

Carlton sighed. Allen had a point. But dammit, it was just so _entertaining_.

He turned to Allen, who smiled.

"Yes, I know, you love me, no I won't tell anyone you said so. Now go, rescue your wife."

"Yes, ma'am." Drawing his brows together he looked at Alan. "You'd better keep an eye on how many of those things she has," he said with a nod at the rapidly emptying glass.

"And what, exactly, do you suggest I do?" Alan shrugged, clearly helpless in the face of the strong-willed sergeant.

"Good point." Carlton clapped a sympathetic hand against the big man's shoulder. "_Vaya con Dios, hermano_," he drawled, backing away as he felt himself assaulted by twin cannons of female wrath, what with the way Allen was rolling her eyes coupled with Juliet's withering stare and its clear overtones of _I _Will_ Kill You, Carlton Lassiter_. Even so, he couldn't help but laugh—couldn't recall the last time he'd had such a good time baiting anyone not named Spencer—but it was definitely time to rescue Juliet from Spencer, Jr. The sofa was comfortable enough for naps and various extracurricular activities, but he wasn't at all sure about an entire night. Best to guarantee he not find out.

Besides it had been a good fifteen minutes since he'd last touched her.

Fifteen damned minutes too long.

"Jules, color me devastated you don't believe I bought not just one, but _two_ tickets."

"By which you mean you stole not only your father's but Guster's as well," Carlton said with a glance toward the ballroom entrance where an obviously annoyed Guster had joined Henry at the door. You'd think they'd learn.

As he drew up alongside Juliet he placed a hand on her back breathing deep as he felt her lean against him with a grateful sigh. Judging by the look she shot up at him, however, they were still going to be having _words_ later. Good thing he'd laid in a store of ice cream when he went grocery shopping. He'd long ago learned the value of a well-timed pint of Ben & Jerry's Volun-Tiramisu.

"And I'm fairly certain I'm going to be sorry I asked, but what reason could you possibly have to steal _two_ tickets?"

"Because I know how important this ball thing is to Jules."

Carlton exchanged a bemused glance with Juliet. Yes, the man-child had been a bit morose in the weeks following last year's ball and had disappeared for a week following the announcement of their quiet elopement ten months earlier, but he'd eventually more or less reverted to behaving the way he had before he and Juliet had gotten involved, which was to say, reverted to acting the way he _always_ had: entitled, obnoxious, spastic, idiotic, annoying—

"Shawn, I'm married." While tinged with a familiar note of exasperation, Juliet's voice was nevertheless extraordinarily gentle. Far better than the idiot deserved.

Spencer's sandy brows rose. "That doesn't mean you couldn't attend the ball with me."

"Actually, nimrod, that's exactly what it means," Carlton snapped, feeling no obligation towards gentleness or patience. Although, he supposed, this was partially his own fault. If he'd headed the moron off at the pass and had him removed from the ballroom, they wouldn't be wasting time with this.

"Come on, Lassie—" Spencer smirked in typical Spencer-know-it-all fashion. "Admit it—parties aren't really your scene. Don't you think we could at least come to some sort of gentleman's agreement? Like, you know, a time share?"

"_Shawn!_"

As Juliet spluttered in outrage, Carlton ground out, "My wife is _not_ a condo, you narcissistic asshat." He considered it a sign of how far he'd come that he hadn't popped Spencer… _yet_.

The night was still young.

"Seriously, Jules," Shawn said in a wheedling tone. "You can't tell me this is really working out for you. I get that you were trying to teach me a lesson, and believe me, I've learned it. Don't you think this charade has gone on long enough?"

"Oh, Shawn—"

Carlton felt a wave of possessiveness wash over him as Juliet placed her hand on her burgeoning belly. Five months along and in his opinion, she was the most beautiful pregnant woman he'd ever seen.

She was flat out the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"Spencer—" In deference to Juliet and the sudden exhaustion he could feel emanating from her, he kept his tone as non-threatening as possible. "I honestly have no idea if you're joking or if you're serious—"

"I've heard it both ways."

Carlton took a deep breath, calmed by Juliet's hand grasping his. In her touch he could feel the strength he relied on, her faith that he would deal with the situation, her assurance that if necessary, she could step in—but above all, he could feel her love. And it was because of that love he was able to continue in a reasonably calm voice.

"I have my doubts as to whether or not you've learned a damned thing, but trying to prove it with Juliet needs to end—now." He glanced at Juliet's hand resting on her stomach. "_Especially_ now, you understand?"

If he didn't know better he could swear even the bell-festooned points of that stupid hat drooped, right along with the man's shoulders.

"Yeah. It's just—"

The younger man's face screwed up into what Juliet had confided she'd dubbed "Poop Face." Carlton had laughed so hard he'd wound up erupting into a vicious case of hiccups the likes of which he hadn't had since he was a kid. Totally worth it, though, even though it was hell keeping a straight face at crime scenes when Psych was called in. Even now, knowing full well a patented Shawn Spencer insult loomed on the horizon, he could feel the corners of his lips twitching.

"_You_, Lassie?"

"Yeah, him. Just him. _Always_ him. I suggest you get used to it." Juliet moved her hand to Spencer's arm. "And if you've really learned a lesson, you might want to prove it by returning Henry and Gus' tickets to them and next year, _buy_ your own." With a tired sigh, she leaned more fully against Carlton.

Taking her silent cue, Carlton slipped an arm around her shoulders and began leading her toward the exit. "Good night, Spencer."

At the entrance to the ballroom, he paused and informed the ticket taker that the two gentleman were invited guests and oh, by the way, the idiot in the Court Jester outfit was a trespasser. Waving off Henry and Guster's thanks, he continued leading Juliet into the resort's expansive rotunda until they came to a bench strategically placed near the water feature.

"Why don't you wait here while I get the valet to bring the car around?"

With a smile, she tugged on his hand and drew him down to sit beside her. "I have a better idea."

His eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

Wordlessly, she drew a card emblazoned with the resort's logo from her small evening bag and held it up, a familiar gleam lighting her lovely blue-gray eyes.

Carlton bit back a smile. "A bit presumptuous, don't you think, Detective O'Hara?"

A perfect light brown brow rose. "I believe it was you who declared it an example of remarkable foresight, Detective Lassiter."

"That I did." The desire that was never far from the surface rose, prompting him to cup her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her impossibly soft cheeks. "So am I forgiven for leaving you to deal with Spencer for so long?"

She leaned in and placed those perfect, soft lips against his, her teeth emerging to nibble at his lower lip in a way that fried every nerve ending he owned. "Oh, no," she whispered, her tongue soothing the slight sting her teeth had left behind. "You have to admit, that deserves some sort of retribution."

"You're not going to make me sleep on the sofa, are you?"

"No," she murmured against his mouth. "You're simply not going to sleep at all."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. I suppose you think that's pretty shameless for a married pregnant lady." As her teeth continued their devastating assault on his lower lip, he gave thanks the bench was set back in a secluded alcove.

"You're _my_ married pregnant lady," he murmured, trailing kisses along her jaw to the sensitive spot along her ear. "And I _like_ shameless."

"Oh," she sighed, her hands stroking his hair. "Good."

Carlton stood and pulled her up into his arms. "And I believe I also said you can presume any damned thing you want with me."

She smiled up at him, and damn, if all those stories of pregnant women glowing weren't true—then again, as far as he was concerned, Juliet had _always_ glowed. "Like love?"

He kissed her, slow and thorough, secure in the knowledge that this was something he'd always have.

"God yes, Juliet. _Especially_ love."

**~_Fin_**


End file.
